


the devil's in the details, but you've got a friend in me

by thegraystreaks



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, also known in my google docs as working title: percy needs a hug if that tells you anything, but thats it thats the fic, i can't remember where i first saw the headcanon of percy having scars after mount st helens, missing moment, trigger warning: panic attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25558618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraystreaks/pseuds/thegraystreaks
Summary: BOTL: For the rest of the summer, "Annabeth and I pretty much skirted around each other. I was glad to be with her, but it also kind of hurt, and it hurt when I wasn't with her, too."- or -As he looks up, he sees the distress that she’s attempting to mask. It strikes him that even though she’s clearly anxious to know what had happened that day, in this moment she is more concerned with comforting him, with making sure he’s alright.He’s reminded of a time when their roles had been reversed—when her world was crumbling, and he had just wanted her to be okay. A bubble at the bottom of the ocean, his arms around her as she had cried for a future she’d never have: a city of marble and gold, a happy family, the boy she had lost to the other side of the war. He pushes the past few weeks out of his mind and remembers that this is Annabeth, his best friend. One of the people he trusts most in the world.“I was burning alive,” he exhales.
Relationships: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson
Comments: 27
Kudos: 277





	the devil's in the details, but you've got a friend in me

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place a few weeks after the Battle of the Labyrinth.
> 
> Title is from "Peace" off of folklore by Taylor Swift because I couldn't help myself.
> 
> BIG thank you to @nerdylizj for getting sad with me about our poor boy Percy, hyping me up, and being the best beta <3

There is no better way to spend a Saturday at Camp Half-Blood, in Percy’s humble opinion, than a beach day on the Long Island Sound. 

For a few hours, it doesn’t matter which of the gods want him dead. For Percy, the ocean acts almost like a reset switch; it shakes out the tension thrumming through his body, simultaneously calming him and giving him something akin to a caffeine jolt for the week ahead. 

A day spent on the Sound is pure relaxation and _fun_. A Friday night game of Capture the Flag can get his blood pumping, but a team loss has the power to let him down, to leave him itching for more. There are no such losses on the beach. He was always left happy. Satisfied. 

While they aren't necessarily a camp tradition, beach days have become the go-to Saturday afternoon activity in the past year or so. Any given weekend, at least half of the camp would end up hanging out on the shore, perhaps partially due to the entertainment Percy provides—he’s really starting to get a handle on his son-of-the-sea-god powers.

He’s always game to create a few whirlpools and jet streams for the younger campers to ride on. His friends get a kick out of the way the sea creatures all gravitate toward him, so he usually ends up translating the weekly reports of undersea gossip he gets from the fish. And if he’s feeling mischievous, the Stoll brothers can occasionally goad him into dousing some unsuspecting camper on the sand with a wave (last time, he drenched Clarisse. He only narrowly avoided a maiming by threatening to sic stingrays on her if she came any closer). 

They had become one of his favorite parts of camp, and yet, Percy has avoided every single beach day since he returned from the Labyrinth. 

He claimed he needed to spend his free time in the sword fighting arena. It wasn’t a lie: since the battle, he’s been training more often and for longer periods. Earlier that summer, he had lost a significant amount of weight after unleashing enough power to cause a volcanic eruption and getting marooned on Ogygia. Regaining the muscle, endurance and strength lost has taken hard work.

Sure, it was a valid excuse, but it was only skin-deep. Burning coals, shifting magma, and unsteady ground — the truth runs as deep as the earth.

\----------------------------------

_three weeks prior:_

_The battle ended two full days ago, and they are still picking up the pieces._

_The pegasus stables had been almost completely crushed by a giant, and a large section of the strawberry fields were trampled by a hellhound. The Hephaestus cabin now leads the reconstruction efforts in the stables, but Percy sticks with the Demeter kids, mending the fields. He’s not a particularly knowledgeable gardener, but it gives him something to do with his shaking hands. A way to create life after he had caused so much destruction._

_Besides, the only other thing to do is tend to the wounded, and he knows neither how to heal wounds nor how to apologize for them._

_It was his fault, after all. If only he had just stabbed Kronos in the sarcophagus, if only he hadn’t hesitated at the sight of Luke’s body —this might never have happened. The thought of working alongside the Apollo cabin as they treated the wounds he’d caused and mourned the sibling whose death he was responsible for—no. He can’t do that._

_So he works in the strawberry fields. The Demeter kids let him handle watering the newly planted seeds, and he’s thankful for the focus it takes to guide the stream over from the woods. He welcomes any distraction from the thoughts in his head._

_Percy is covered in mud: dirt is under each fingernail, caked to his hair, and stuck to his clothes. As the sun starts to dip toward the horizon, Percy heads to Cabin Three to clean up before dinner. He tosses his dirty shirt aside, and he’s digging around for a clean one when his reflection catches his eye._

_The deep, discolored burns that litter his torso are displayed in the mirror in front of him, and it makes it difficult to recognize his body as his own, if only for a second. He’s known these scars were there, of course, but it feels so strange to see them in the context of his cabin, his home. He realizes he’s never really looked at them closely before. It isn’t until this moment that Percy registers that these scars are part of him now._

_Suddenly, he can’t breathe._

_Memories of snarling creatures and burning skin blindside him, wage war against his senses. Phantom smoke fills his lungs. The walls of his cabin morph into the belly of Mount St. Helens, and the bubbling sounds from the fountain in his room become the churn and hiss of lava below him._

_He crumples to the floor, gasping for air. Minutes pass like hours, and he wants to fight back, but there’s no tangible enemy. There’s no sword he can wield in a battle that exists only in his head._

_Eventually, his breathing slows. The cavernous volcano fades back into his cabin walls, and he’s able to stand again. But the tremor won’t leave his hands, and his body is shaking as he crawls into his bunk, too exhausted and scared to go to dinner._

_When sleep finally comes, his dreams are tinged in red._

_After that night, he undresses with his back to the mirror, terrified of the power his reflection has over him. He brings his clothes into the stall with him when he showers to avoid the staring he knows his scars would bring._

_When he finally builds up the resolve to face the mirror without his shirt on again, he fights off panic by sheer force of will, erecting barricades in his mind to hold off unwanted memories. He looks at his burn marks, but commands his mind to think of anything else_ _:_ _skateboarding, algebra, blue Coke._

_It just barely works._

  
\----------------------------------

  
Three weeks after the battle, his reflection still makes him shake sometimes. Some nights, even the smell of the burning campfire is too much for him.

He avoids the beach, because he knows people will stare if he takes his shirt off. Maybe the older campers are too polite to comment, but Camp Half-Blood is home for plenty of children, too. And kids don’t know how to keep their mouth shut. If someone asks him what happened to him, he can’t imagine it’d be fun to have a panic attack in front of the whole camp.

Still, staying away from the ocean takes its toll. The sea is a source of calming energy for him, and with all of the stress of an impending war, he desperately misses the release the water provides. Going weeks without so much as dipping his toes in has left him on a short fuse. Grover had IM’d him last week from Yosemite, where he’s been leading a group of satyrs to spread the news of Pan’s death. Apparently, Percy’s shitty mood has translated through their empathy link, because Grover couldn’t stop stress-eating aluminum cans.

“Stop saying you’re fine, Percy,” he had bleated between bites. “I can literally feel how _not fine_ you are. What’s going on?”

But Percy had just muttered an excuse about being late for archery and ended the call. It only made him feel shittier. In the next few days, his emotional state had deteriorated so much so that he had yelled at Silena for humming too loudly in the stables while he was talking to Blackjack. He’d yelled at _Silena_ , maybe the nicest person he knew, for _humming_.

What’s even worse is that when he tried to apologize, Silena had just looked at him with pity. “It’s okay, Percy,” she had said. “You’ve got a lot on your shoulders. You have a right to be tense.”

She wasn’t wrong. There are plenty of reasons for the quiet anger that never truly leaves him, for the exhaustion and grief that course through his veins. The loss of campers like Lee and Castor are painful wounds ripping through the camp, still aching despite the weeks that have passed since the battle. Some days, the blame he carries for their deaths feels heavier than the sky. The threat of the Great Prophecy looms over him, its ambiguity a crushing weight that increases with each passing day.

And of course, he and Annabeth are barely speaking. 

Things have gotten so complicated. He misses his best friend like a lost limb. But she’s been avoiding him. He’s been avoiding her, too. What would he even say to her? 

_I’ve wanted you to kiss me for longer than I’d ever admit, but I’m pretty sure you only did it because you thought I was about to die? I miss you, but you still care more about a guy that has betrayed you, kidnapped you, tried to kill us over and over, and whose body is now hosting the Lord of the Titans?_

And then there was the whole Calypso thing—and Rachel—his head starts to pound whenever he tries to sort through it all.

Gods, he really needs to visit the ocean.

Which is why early one morning, before the sun begins to rise, he sneaks out of his cabin. When he gets to the beach, he ditches his camp shirt in the sand, laying Riptide on top of it since his swim trunks don’t have pockets. A peaceful stillness settles over him at the sight of the empty shore: he can finally relax.

The sea seems to welcome him with open arms. Gentle waves glide up the sand to meet his ankles, and it feels like ambrosia tastes—like his mother’s blue chocolate chip cookies, like coming home after being away on a quest, like returning to camp after a shitty school year. He wades in until the water reaches his chest, and then he dives. 

And _oh_ , _finally_.

Being underwater makes him feel like he can breathe properly for the first time in weeks. The currents pull at him, and he lets his body sway to and fro, content to just be. Fish swim up to greet him, and the escapism of talking with them about an entirely different realm is wonderfully freeing. It’s as if the world above didn’t exist. Nothing real could reach him down here—no prophecy, no impending doom, no invasive memories, no cold shoulders from best friends.

When fractured light begins to illuminate his surroundings from above, he knows it’s time to resurface. Still, he isn’t ready to return to camp quite yet. He floats on his back near the beach, basking in the euphoria of cool water on his skin combined with the view above. It’s an incredible blend of colors. The sun has not quite broken out onto the horizon yet, hazy oranges and soft pinks are bleeding into what remains of the night sky, and the sound of the waves crashing onto the sand is impossibly soothing, and—

The gentle slap of flip-flops pulls him back to reality. 

He rights himself and looks out to the shore to see Annabeth laying down a blanket on the beach. 

She opens Daedalus’s laptop and settles in, clearly trying to get some work done in the peace and quiet of the early morning. She hasn’t seen him yet, and he wonders if he’d be able to swim out to sea and around to the very edge of the camp’s borders. Maybe he could get back to shore undetected and sneak off to his cabin without her spotting him.

But he watches as her eyes land on his t-shirt, still in the sand. She walks over to inspect it, bends down, and picks up a small object. Riptide _._

“Percy?” she calls.

He freezes. When his brain catches up, it yells at him to duck below the waves to hide, but she looks out toward the water and too late, she spots him. He’s past the initial dropoff, so the waves just barely reach his shoulders. Almost of their own accord, his hands lift to his torso, brushing against his scars. His mind races; an image of a platform and a furnace flashes behind his eyes—

He blinks hard and snaps back to reality. “Uh, hey Annabeth,” he replies, aiming for casual. “Can you toss me my shirt?” 

“Come get it yourself.” He can practically hear the eye-roll.

So this is it then. Come out of the water, and she’ll see. In his mind, he can already picture her brows knitting together with confusion, maybe even revulsion, at the sight of his torso, can hear her demanding to know what created such ugly marks.

Heat prickles at his skin and the smell of smoke invades his senses. His chest constricts.

“My shirt, Annabeth. Please?” He’s close to wheezing, and she must hear the panic in his voice because suddenly she rises to her feet.

“Percy, what’s wrong?” 

But blood is rushing in his ears, and all of a sudden he’s _there_ , and he’s on fire, and the telekhine’s howling laughter is echoing in his head. Terror and helplessness course through his body. He’s choking on smoke and the stench of burning flesh — _his_ flesh — _there’s not enough air_ , his mind is screaming. 

A familiar tug starts low in his gut, and Percy faintly registers the ocean churning around him, the water receding from the shore and swelling into a towering wave at his back. He’s reminded of the explosion; the raw power he had released, the devastation he had caused, and _fuck_ , he’s losing control. The water froths around him, tossing dangerously, and it’s building and building—

His vision narrows in on movement in front of him. Annabeth is coming toward him, hands outstretched, the expression on her face reading more like she’s approaching a wounded animal than a dangerous threat.

“Stay back,” he gasps, his voice full of panic. His eyes dart around wildly, searching for something to ground him, something to hold onto. He needs to get this under control, but his heart rate is somehow hammering even faster. He’s spinning out, and he can feel that he’s seconds away from a terrible release—

“Percy! Percy, look at me!” a voice calls over the rush of the water. 

_Annabeth_. 

His eyes find hers, and their startling intensity demands his attention. The words she’s saying begin to replace the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears: “—safe, Percy, you’re safe. You’re at Camp Half-Blood, you’re at the beach.” 

The beach, he’s at the _beach_. Is he? He refuses to look away from Annabeth, but the world around her comes in and out, the shoreline never quite replacing the dark cavern his mind has trapped him into. Through the haze, he realizes she’s counting out a pattern, instructing him to breathe. Her hands rise and fall in time with her voice. He watches them closely, anchors himself to their rhythm. Nothing else matters—not the flames, not the howling, not the smoke. Just her. Her hands and her eyes.

The reds and oranges of the mountain blend and fade into the grays and blues of sky and water— _water._ The burning heat subsides. He’s in the water, he’s not on fire. He forces his mind to focus on the coolness of the ocean. He digs his toes in the sand. The tidal wave behind him slowly melts back into the sea. His pulse settles, his breathing slows.

“Percy,” Annabeth calls, her voice shaking. “Are you okay?”

“No.” The answer isn’t given so much as pulled out of him. “No, I’m not.”

“Can you...do you want to tell me about it?”

“I can’t—I can’t come out of the water.”

He waits for questioning, but what he hears instead is, “Okay. That’s okay.” 

And then she’s taking a step toward him, her eyes asking a question. He nods, and she continues forward. 

She’s not wearing a swimsuit, and her clothes billow around her as she moves past the dropoff and into deeper waters. She stops when his body tenses. Only a few feet remain between them.

He breathes. She waits.

“I was back there. On the mountain.” 

She blinks in surprise. “Oh.”

“Things got pretty bad after you...” he trails off, looking away. _After you kissed me and disappeared_ , his mind supplies. “After you followed Hephestaus’s spider back.”

She hums, and he somehow knows it means both _I’m listening_ and _take your time_. Patient is not a word he would normally use to describe Annabeth, but in this moment, she stays quiet and allows him to find both the words and the courage to get them out. 

“I, uh...I was burned pretty badly.” Her head bobs in acknowledgement. She’s seen some of the faded lines creeping up the side of his neck, some light marks spindling down his forearms. “Not just by the explosion. By the telekhines. They were throwing lava at me, and I—” 

Fear stirs in his chest once again, but he closes his eyes and breathes.

Over the sound of his heartbeat echoing in his ears, he hears Annabeth saying, “It’s okay, Percy. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

He knows that what he’d just shared is new information for Annabeth. She knows he’d caused the explosion, but he hasn’t discussed the details of that day, of what happened before that, with anyone. As he looks up, he sees the distress that she’s attempting to mask. It strikes him that even though she’s clearly anxious to know what had happened that day, in this moment she is more concerned with comforting him, with making sure he’s alright. 

He’s reminded of a time when their roles had been reversed—when her world was crumbling, and he had just wanted her to be okay. A bubble at the bottom of the ocean, his arms around her as she had cried for a future she’d never have: a city of marble and gold, a happy family, the boy she had lost to the other side of the war. He pushes the past few weeks out of his mind and remembers that this is Annabeth, his best friend. One of the people he trusts most in the world. 

“I was burning alive,” he exhales. “I was burning alive and they were _laughing_ , it was the worst pain I’ve ever felt, and...and I thought I was dying. I was going to die. I called out to the sea, and that’s when everything exploded. And now I have all of these—these scars, all over my chest.” 

Even through the anguish coloring her features, the tears shining in her eyes, he can practically see the puzzle pieces snapping into place in her head. “Is that why you haven’t come to the beach since we got back?”

_Of course she noticed_ , Percy thinks. Nothing gets past Annabeth Chase. Part of him wants to lie, to make up some excuse, but this is Annabeth, and he knows in an instant that he won’t be able to fool her. 

“It’s stupid, I know. We’re demigods, we all have scars. But sometimes when I see them, I…” he trails off, not knowing how to explain, or what to say.

She waits. _Trust_ , he thinks. He breathes out.

“I just—everyone will stare. Someone might ask about them. I’m not...I don’t know, ashamed of them, I guess, but...thinking about them makes me think about how I got them. And if I have to explain what happened, I—I’m afraid I’ll start panicking again.”

“You just explained it to me without panicking again,” she replies gently.

He snorts. “Yeah, after I almost took out the entire beach with my anxiety.”

“Okay, sure, but Percy...you don’t _owe_ anyone an explanation. If they ask you, tell them to fuck off.” Percy just stares at her. “Oh, right, I forgot. You’re way too nice for that,” she mocks lightly.

A sound rings out from the direction of camp—the conch shell, signaling breakfast time. It shatters the illusion that Percy had begun to sink into: that this moment was infinite, that he could stay in the ocean forever. Stay with Annabeth, who had been concerned for him, who had just pulled him out of the mountain, who had brought him out of his head and back to camp. Annabeth, who was talking to him for the first time in weeks.

“Do you want to head back?” she asks, turning towards the shore. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. “Um...oh! Sorry, I can go get your shirt for you.”

_Trust_ , he thinks.

“No. It’s okay.” He steps past the dropoff point, and now the water only reaches mid-thigh. His skin is unprotected, defenseless. He continues to shore anyway, Annabeth by his side.

When they reach land, her eyes lock onto his scars. Even though he feels exposed, _raw_ , he lets her look.

The scars weren’t as bad as they could be, he supposes. Not as bad as they would’ve been, at least, without some of Calypso’s magic. And if he weren’t the son of the sea god, weren’t so hard to burn. Though he had been completely engulfed in flames, most of his extremities endured little to no lasting marks. 

His chest and back, however, are not so lucky. 

Annabeth’s gaze travels over his abdomen, pausing at the large, angry splotches that are darker and redder than their surroundings. These scars were discolored and misshapen, left from the molten lava hitting his body. They carved a landscape of hard ridges and deep valleys into his skin, and surrounding them, rivulets of smaller, lighter scarring rippled outward, meandering across his chest and back, crawling up his neck and around his shoulders. The marred skin from the glob of lava that hit his thigh peeks out from the bottoms of his swimming trunks, fading into lighter marks that stop just above his knee.

“You must have been so scared,” she sniffles. 

“Yeah,” he replies, his voice breaking.

Suddenly, her arms are around him. Her chin hooks over his shoulder, and she clings to him tightly as if trying to undo the fact that she hadn’t stayed with him in the volcano, that she had put on her Yankee’s cap and ran after the spider. Just as his tears begin to spill over and onto his cheeks, he feels hers falling onto his shoulder.

“I never should have left you that day,” she whispers brokenly.

“Of course you should have. You would’ve died otherwise.”

“Well you _did_ die!” she sobs, the dam finally breaking. “Or well, you didn’t, but I thought…you were gone so long, I—” 

“I know. Gods, I know. I’m so sorry, Annabeth.”

“Me too, Percy.”

Breakfast is long forgotten. They stand there, wrapped around each other, and cry until there are no tears left. When they finally calm down, Annabeth breaks the silence, muffling her words into his shoulder.

“You shouldn’t have to miss out on beach days because of this. They’re your favorite.”

Percy is hyper-aware of the fact that they’re still hugging, that this is the longest period of time they’ve ever held each other. “It’s really not that big a deal,” he tries. She pulls away to look at him, brows raising as if to say _I don’t believe you for one second_ , and gods, has she always been able to see through him so easily? “Seriously, Annabeth. It’s fine.”

“No. No, it’s not fine,” she says, her face only inches from his. “You could wear a shirt to the beach, it wouldn’t be _that_ weird. Or...Percy, have you talked to anyone about this?”

The following silence answers for him. In that moment, she seems to realize that her arms are still around him, that their faces are closer together than friends’ faces usually are. She awkwardly detaches herself from him and takes a half-step out of his space. His body aches in the places where they are no longer pressed together.

“It might be good for you, you know? I know things are, um.” She stops and tries again. “I know we haven’t been talking much. But….you’re still my best friend. You can talk to me. Or Grover, or your mom, or Beckendorf, or...” She sighs. “You have so many people that care about you, Percy. You know that, right?”

The corners of his mouth lift into a small smile. “Yeah, I know. Thanks.”

She takes a deep breath. “But you also know that these scars might not go away, right? They might heal a little bit more, but there’s a chance they’ll never disappear completely. You can’t just...you can’t spend your entire life missing out on things that make you happy because of them.”

Her words hit him straight in the chest. It’s something that he’s known somewhere deep down; that he might be stuck with this physical reminder of his trauma forever, that allowing his scars to take things away from him only reopens the wounds, only extends his pain. But to hear it out loud and phrased so cleanly sends a shock through his system. A little painful, but also clarifying.

“I know,” he responds quietly. Her eyes cut into him, gentle and sincere.

“I can talk to our friends, if you want. Tell them...you know, what to expect. I won’t say anything you don’t want me to. But I could let them know that you have scars from the eruption. And that you’d rather not talk about it.” When he doesn’t say anything right away, she begins to ramble: “And I’m not saying that you should, like, force yourself to come back to the beach days before you’re comfortable. I don’t want to push you. But...I know the ocean makes you happy, and your friends make you happy, and...you seem like you could use some happiness these days.”

His heart beats painfully in his chest at her last comment. He hears unspoken words: _even though I’ve been acting like I’m ignoring you, I’m not_ , and _I care about your happiness._

His mind searches for excuses, for reasons to say no. He doesn’t want to make this a big deal, he doesn’t want anyone’s pity or anymore attention. Just because they don’t say anything doesn’t mean they won’t stare, that he won’t know what they’re thinking, that he won’t ruin a nice day at the beach with a panic attack.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. But would it help if I did?”

_It might_ , the rational part of his brain nags. It couldn’t hurt, at the very least. He thinks of how he’s been cutting Grover off, how he’d snapped at Silena, how angry he is all the time. And how, for an hour or so this morning, in the stillness of the water, all of that faded away. How he needs the sea. How he misses his friends.

And then he thinks about how she’s offering to do something nice for him. Even with this mess between them, even when they’ve barely spoken in weeks. 

He nods. “Yeah. Um, I’d like that,” he decides. “Thank you.”

“And anyone who stares will have me to answer to.” Her voice is set in determination.

He chuckles, but his heart swells with warmth all the same. “Thank the gods I have such an intimidating best friend.” 

  
\----------------------------------

After his conversation with Annabeth, it’s not that Percy immediately finds acceptance. He doesn’t rip his shirt off when the humidity is stifling like he might have before. Still, something has changed. When painful memories try to take control, he breathes deep and thinks instead of Annabeth—the feeling of her arms wrapped around him, the way she had looked at him that morning—something that wasn’t anger or annoyance for the first time since they returned from the labyrinth. How she had been gentle with him, soft and sincere.

Comfort comes from where he least expected it, from where he probably should have expected it all along.

“Hey, Tyson?” Percy asks one night as the two move about the cabin, getting ready for bed. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, brother,” he says, his back facing Percy as he digs through his dresser drawer.

“You don’t have to talk to me about it if you don’t want. But I was wondering…about your scars.” Tyson’s hands become still, abandoning his search for a pair of socks. “When you think about them, do you ever get scared? Like...of the monsters that hurt you?”

The idea to ask this had struck Percy only moments ago, as Tyson had been changing into his pajamas. The scars on his brother’s back, scars that Percy had almost forgotten existed, had prompted him into the realization that there was someone who, just maybe, knew exactly what he was going through.

Percy has to strain to hear his brother’s response. “I used to. I used to get really scared. But not so much anymore.”

“No?”

“No,” Tyson replies, turning around to face him. “Because now I have you. And Mrs. O’Leary. Briares. And all my friends here at camp.” He looks up with a small smile. “Things are better now. I know how to fight. And I am not alone.”

“No, you’re not.” Annabeth’s words come back to him— _You have so many people that care about you, Percy_. 

“Sometimes I get sad, though. About my scars. I think it is okay to be sad sometimes.”

Percy’s throat unexpectedly closes up. “I think it’s okay, too,” he manages. After taking a deep breath, he continues. “I know you were in the labyrinth with Grover when it happened, but remember me telling you about how I made a volcano erupt?”

Tyson nods.

“Well, right before that, there were some monsters. They were hurting me. The reason I asked you about your scars is because…well…” Percy lifts up his shirt. “I have some pretty big scars too, now. And sometimes, I get scared when I think about them. When I remember what happened.”

Tyson responds with a level of excitement that takes Percy aback. “You have scars like me? Brother, we match!”

The corners of Percy’s lips turn up slowly. “Yeah, we do, don’t we?”  
  


\----------------------------------

For the rest of summer, things are still a bit awkward between him and Annabeth. They go back to mostly skirting around each other. There’s still so much in between them—Calypso’s island, Rachel, Luke, the prophecy—but when he quietly mentions to her that he’ll see her at the beach next Saturday, she arranges a Camp Half-Blood Olympics with sand volleyball, sparring tournaments, and swimming races. Everyone has so much fun that there’s hardly any room for odd looks, or for Percy to be anxious, and it strikes him that she might have planned the event specifically for that reason. The thought makes his heart race in a good way for the first time in awhile.

To top it off, whenever anyone stares at him, Annabeth shoots them a glare so intimidating that they immediately cower and look away. The day may not be an immediate resolution to the many things that stand between them. But it’s a white flag, a reminder: _I’m still your best friend._

Unfortunately, even with Annabeth’s pointed scowls, someone still manages to broach the subject of his scars: the games are over and Percy is standing waist-deep in the water, talking with some friends, when a younger camper swims up and asks him where he got all of the burn marks on his chest. Everyone else freezes, but Percy just smiles.

“I blew up a volcano.”

“That’s so coo—AHH! GROSS!” The boy darted away from the eel that had slid against his stomach. In the silence that follows, Percy notices he’s not spiraling. The air may be sticky but the water is cool and calm. He’s with his friends in a place that he loves. 

_Oh, I’m the gross one? Did you see the peeling sunburn on that kid?_ , the eel hisses in his head, pulling him back to reality. Percy laughs and allows himself to get caught up in a conversation with the creature about a group of rude sea urchins under the dock. 

After a bit, Beckendorf nudges his shoulder. “How could you possibly have this much to talk about with an eel?”

Percy grins. “Well, right now we’re discussing the second-hand embarrassment we’re both experiencing.” Beckendorf raises an eyebrow at that. “You know, from how long you’ve been staring at Silena. And how you don’t have the balls to go over and talk to her.”

He just laughs. “Fuck off, Jackson. Like you’re one to talk.” He sends a pointed look in the direction of Annabeth, who looks to be engaged in a heated discussion with some of her siblings on the other side of the beach, hands flying and voice raising every so often. 

Percy slams Beckendorf with a wave for that.

Hours later, most of the campers have left the beach, but Percy remains in the water. The waves roll in quietly around him, and he is content to stare out into the distance, letting the sea draw out any remaining tension from his body. 

His hand comes up to rest on his scars, and he’s pulled back to a memory of Mount St. Helens. But this time, his mind flashes to a stormy glare, a press of lips, a whisper, _“Be careful, Seaweed Brain.”_ Other memories from the mountain surface, too, but he allows them to come and go like the waves around him. Forming, sweeping, crashing, gone.

A gentle hand squeezes his forearm under the water. “Hey, you okay?” 

He turns to Annabeth. “Yeah,” he smiles softly. “I’m just fine.”

“Good,” she says. He watches as she turns away, making her way back over to where Malcolm and a couple of her other siblings are drying off.

Percy holds no pretenses that the road ahead will be a simple one. Still, he smiles, because he knows. He could feel it in the way her fingertips had lingered on his arm before pulling away, could see it just by the hint of a smile she had given him. The two of them would find their way to each other. Someday.

  
  
  



End file.
